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AMES' Series of 

STANDARD AND MINOR DRAMA, 



Ho. «3. 



» *■ » 



Three Glasses a Day, 

Or The Broken Home. 

A Grand Moral and Temperance Drama, 

p S k 5 5* IN TO0 ACTS ' 

AUTHOR OF 

Eock Allen, the Orphan, Fun by the Bushel, etc. 

WITH CAST OF CHARACTERS, ENTRANCES AND EXITS, RELATIVE 
POSITIONS OF THE PERFORMERS ON THE STAGE, DE- 
SCRIPTION OF COSTUME, AND THE WHOLE OF 
THE STAGE BUSINESS, AS PERFORM- 
ED AT THE PRINCIPAL AMER- 
ICAN AND ENGLISH 
THEATRES. 






-o- 



CLYDE, OHIO. 

A. D AMES, PUBLISHED, 



To Amateurs. 



The following articles will be of grent aid to you in placing upon 
the stage, your Plays. All articles are of the best quality, made ex- 
pressly for our trade, and will not fail to give entire satisfaction. 

COLORED FIRES. 

We have Red, Green, Blue, Violet, Lilac and Pink. These are per- 
fectly harmless, and are sold for 25 cents, each color, by mail postage 
prepaid. The same in one-half pound cans at $1,00, by express only. 

PREPARED BURNT CORK. 

For Negro Minstrels. This article is invaluable, as ii can be taken 
off as easily as put on, in which it differs from all others manufactur- 
ed. In tin boxes, enough for 25 performances, per box, 40 cents. 
One-half pound, by express only, $1,00. 

FLESH PAINTS. 

A necessary article for making the wig join the forehead so that it 
cannot be seen — also for lining the face. In boxes by mail 75 cents. 

MAGNESIUM TABLEAU LIGHTS. 

A metal capable of being ignited by a common match, and burning 
with great brilliancy, producing a light that can be seen thirty miles. 
Unequalled in beruty and brilliancy. It is so intense that it oauses 
a gas-light to cast a shadow. Price each, 25 cents, by mail. 



AMATEUR COMPANIES wishing the assistance of Mr. Ames in 
producing Plays, or in directing rehearsals, will [deaae enclose a stamp 
for particulars. Terms very reasonable. Will go to any part of th«» 
United States. Long experience renders him perfectly competant to 
direct rehearsals to the satisfaction of all. As an actor the public may 
judge for themselves. We take pleasure in submitting a few notices 
received. The following is from the Appleton City, [Mo.] Pilot. 

"On Thursday night last, Mr. Ames made his first appearance be- 
fore an Appleton City audience, and iT we may judge from the hearty 
reception that met him, in the course of his character of Farmer Allen 
in the beautiful play of 'Dora,' he has made himself a favorite with our 
citizens, and formed a long list of personal friends who will remember 
him and watch his career as an actor and instructor with interest. His 
rendition of Allen was acknowledged by all, as superior work. The 
tear came unbidden to the eye at different times, while watching the 
many and devious passages in which Farmer Allen, the man wliose will 
was law, were delivered in the most natural and effective manner." 

From the same paper we have the following: 

"Mr. A. D. Ames was cast in that most difficult role of Joe Morgan 
in Ten Nights in a Bar-Room. The universal verdict of the audience 
was that his rendition of the same was perfect." 

The following is from the Bloom ville [0.] Banner: . 

"Of the acting of Mr. Ames we can speak in the highest praise. The 
character of Dal ton was written expressly for him, and that he acts it 
true to nature, noone will deny. We could not help noticing the ex- 
pression of countenance so plainly marked, even without a word being 
said. His cry at the death of Willie, where he exclaims, '0, Willie, 
how can 1 give you up !' will not soon be forgotten." 

p§~ Address A. D. AMES, Dramatic Publisher, Clyde, Ohio. 



THREE GLASSES A DAY, 



OR 



THE BROKEN HOME, 



A Moral and Temperance Drama, 



IN THREE ACTS, 



BY 



W. HENRI WILKINS, 



AUTHOR OP 



Rock Allen the Orphan- Fun by the Bushel, etc. 



"With Cast of Characters, Costumes, Entrances and Exits, and 
the whole of the Stage Directions. 






Cf/f 



CLYDE, OHM : 

A. D. AMES, Publishes. 
/T1 



L 



nS7i 






THREE GLASSES A DAY. ^3 LJ 



Cast of Characters as first performed at the Green Mountain Perkin8 Acad- 
emy, South Woodstock, Vermont, November 15th 1871. 






Ralph Aubrey A. E. Cudwortu 

Harry montford F. W. Shattuck 

Zeke Wintergreen W. Henri Wilki ns 

Mrs. Ralph Aubrey Ada C. Taylor 

Clara Aubrey Clara Sherwin 

Julia Lovegrove Angelia A. Averill 



As performed by the Union Dramatic Club, of Felchville, Vermont, Feb- 
ruary 2nd and 16th 1S72. 



Ralph Aubrey E. H. Cartel 

Harrie Montford F. W. Shattuck 

Zeke Wintergreen W. Henri Wilkins 

Mrs. Ralph Aubrey Mary J. Wardner 

Clara Aubrey Lettie C. Elgar 

Julia Lovegrove Clara L. Anderson 



Time in representation — One hour. 



Five vears are supposed to elapse, between act 1st and 2nd, 



COSTUMES MODERN 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1878 by 

A. D. AMES, 
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



Three Glasses a Day, 

Or The Broken Home* 

ACT I. 

Scene I. — Ralph Aubrey's private parlor, richly furnished — Ralph R. with 
newspaper on his knee — Mrs. Aubrey l. at piano, sings and plays as the Cur- 
tain slowly rises. 

Mrs. A. [Singing.] 

"Backward, turn backward, oh time in your flight; 
Make me a child again, just for to-night. 
Mother, come back from the echoless shore, 
Take me again to your heart as of yore — 
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, 
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair- 
Over my slumbers, your loving watch keep — 
Rock me to sleep mother, rock me to sleep." 
Ralph. Ah, Mary that's a sweet voice o f yours, and how many, many 
times I have listened with pleasure to those beautiful strains, as they pour- 
ed forth from your Lps. But to-night 1 am feeling sad and disheartened. 
It seems as if there was a dark cloud gathering, which would soon burst 
over our heads. 1 presume it js a foolish whim, but nevertheless I cannot 
drive it from my mind. 

Mrs. A. And Ralph, I too, have my fears, and you shall know them 
now. Once more I beseech you to quit the wine cup, for I am sure evilwill 
result from it, if you keep on in the course you have marked out. 

Ralph. Pshaw! Mary do yen fesr to trust me? Three glasses a day is 
my rule, and a good one it is too; just enough to make a man feel lively, 
without upsetting him in the least. No danger of Ralph Aubrey being seen 
reeling in the street. 

Mrs. A. "But we have such fearful examples before us, there is but one 
course for us to pursue. 

Ralph. Nonsense, Mary. To be sure there was a time when I stood in a 
fair way to become a drunkard, but that was when I was a wild thought- 
less boy, careing nothing for the future, only thinking of the present. But 
soon I began to see my tolly, and till within the last twelve months I have 
not tasted a drop for twenty years, and surely you can have no fears now ? 
Mrs. A . But Ralph why not leave off this foolish habit entirely ? 
Ralph. Once more Mary, I ask, are you afraid to trust me ? 
Mrs. A. No, Ralph 1 am not afraid to trust you, and yet I would rather 
you would resolve never to taste another drop of liquor. Come, make me a 
present of the three glasses a day. 

Ralph. Indeed I will not my dear, for I could not get along without an 
occasional drop. If you wish a present, you must think of something else. 
Mrs. A. {Smiling.] Nothing else will do Ralph. 

Raftph. It shall never be said that I treated myself better than I did my 
wife, and therefore 1 promise to allow you the three glasses a day, as long 
as 1 take them myself, and every evening I will hand you the price of three 



4 THREE GLASSES A DAY. 

glasses, and you may eat, drink or wear it just a3 you choose, and to com- 
mence with, here are thirty cents the amount I've spent to-day. [Gives 
money.] 

Mrs. A. No Ealph — yes I will take it. [Takes money.] Itwillcomein 
use sometime, and mmd Ralph, you must not forget It. 

Ralph. I will not; every night you shall have the price of what I drink 
during the day. [Exit Mrs. Aubrey L.J Has it already come to this ? [Rises 
and paces the floor.] Can it be possible that my moderate allowance has so 
soon shaken my wife's trust in me? And yet it must be so, for I have notic- 
ed of late, ins ead of the old bright, beaming, happy look, one of pain and 
sadness, and often has she looked at me with an anxious, inquiring gaze, 
as if some hidden sorrow was gnawing at her heart. [Looks at his watch.] 
But it is now past 6 o'clock and I promised to meet Montford at his rooms 
at that time! Ah! it is well that my wife knows not of the heavy loss 
which I sustained last night. [Knock heard r.j Who can that be? Come 
in! 

Enter Montford r. 

Montford. Ah, Aubrey, glad to see you ! glad to see you ! Pleasant eve- 
ning this. You have a splendid place here, one of the finest dwellings in 
the country, and how quiet and cozy this room looks ! Surely, Aubrey, you 
must be a happy dog, I almost envy you your position. 

Ralph. And so Montford you could not wait for me, I suppose you want 
to try that little game of last night over again ? 

Mont. By no means sir, I consented to play to-night and give you a 
chance to win back the sum you lost last evening. So come, let us go, for 
it's getting late. 

Ralph Montford, I will not play with you ; I want no chance to win 
back what I have lost. 

Mont. Very well, if you will not play with me, I wish you would imme- 
diately hand over your check for five thousand dollars, payable to H. H. 
Montford. 

Ralph. Indeed, Montford. you know that at present, I am unable to do 
that. 

Mont. Take your choice, do that or play with me to-night. 

Ralph. Well, since you will have it so, I will play to-night, but remem- 
ber Montford, this shall be the last. 

Enter Julia l. 

Julia. If you please sir, Mrs. Aubrey and Clara desired me to tell you 
that they would like to see you in the drawing-room. 

Ralph. Please tell them it will be inconvenient for me to see them for 
an hour or so, as 1 have an engagement. Come Montford, let us go. 

(Ralph and Montford exit r. 

Julia. An engagement ! pretty engagement for Ralph Aubrey to chose 
the inside of a gambling saloon, in preference to the company of his own 
family. Ah ! Ralph, Julia Lovegrove isn't blind ; she knows where you go 
in company with that villain I 

Enter Mrs. Aubrey and Clara l. 

Julia. Oh ! Mrs. Aubrey, they've gone, Mr. Aubrey said he would see 
you in an hour or so. 

Mrs. A. They ! for heaven's sake who was with him Julia? 

Julia. Harry Montford, if you please ma'am. 

Clara. That man ? Can it be that my father prefers the society of Mont- 
ford, to the society of his own home ? Oh ! mother think of it, Harry Mont- 
ford is a bad man. 

Mrs. A. Well, child, let us go back and patiently wait your father's re- 
tarn, and trust in heaven to guide him in the right path, and he may yet 
be saved from the awful abyss which is now opening before him. 

Clara, Stay here Julia, and when my father returns, come to me imme- 
diately. {Exit Clara and Mrs. Aubrey l 



THREE GLASSES A DAY. 5 

Julia. Ah ! the clouds are lowering, things are growing darker, for 
Ralph Aubrey is fast walking the path that leads to utter ruin ; but we can 
only wait and hope, trusting for a brighter future. (Zeke Wintergreen raps 
outside.) Come in. 

Enter Zeke R. with carpet bag. 

Julia. "Why Zeke Wintergreen, where've you been? 

Zeke.' Me ! why I've been takin' a little excursion on my own hook. 

Julia. Zeke, what do you mean ? 

Zeke. No I ain't mean, any way you can fix it. I've been takin' a little 
ride on the keers, and by beeswax, I never had such a time in all my life. 

Julia. Why, 1 thought you never saw the cars and was afraid to ride on 
them, but come, tell me all about it. 

Zeke. Well, I will if you'll let me set down side on ye. {Draws up chair. 

Julia. If you don't behave yourself I'll leave the room. 

Zeke. Oh I get out, you're makin' all that. 

Julia. Come, why don't you go on with your story. 

Zeke. Well I will. Yer see when I got down to the dipo, I thought I'd 
go round and git a look at the iron hoss. Thunderation ! it want no more 
like a hoss, than it was like a meetin house. I'll be darned Julia, if it 
didn't look like a regular he devil, 6nortin' fire and brimstone out his nos- 
trills, and pan tin' and heavin' and swellin' and chawin' up red hot coals, 
as if they's good. A feller stood in a little house-like, feedin' him all the 
time; but the more he fed him the more he blowed and snorted. Arter a 
while the feller catched bim by the tail, and great Jericho ! he set up a yell 
that split the ground for more'n a mile and a half. 

Julia. Zeke Wintergreen, you're crazy ! 

Zeke.% Oh no, I ain't nor I wan't skeered, but I had three chills and a 
stroke of palsy in less than five minutes, and my face had a curious, brown- 
ish-yellow, green-bluish color in it, which was perfectly unaccountable. 
Well, says I "comment is superflous." And then I took a seat in the near- 
est wagon or car as they call it, a consarned long steamboat lookin' thing 
with a string of pews down each side, big enough to hold about a man and a 
half. Just as I sot down, the boss hollered twice and started off like a 
streak o' greased ligbtnin' ; pitchin me hed fust at the stomarch of a big 
Irish woman, and she gave a tremendous grunt and then kit^hed me by 
the head and crammed, me under the seat. When I got out and staggered 
to another seat, the cars was a jumpin' and tearin' along, nigh onto forty 
thousand mile3 an hour. 

Julia. Ob, Pshaw ! stop your fooling and tell your story. 

Zeke. Well I will. Well yer see, by that time every body was bobbin* up 
and down like a saw-mill, and every wretch of 'em had his mouth wide 
open, like as if they's laffin' but I couldn't hear nothin', the cars kept up 
such a darned rackit. Bimeby they stopped all to once, and then such an- 
other laff busted out of them passengers as I never beam before. Laffin at 
me too, that's what made me mad as thunder. I riz (rises) right up and 
shakin' my fist at 'em, says I, "Ladies and gentlemen, look a here, I'm a 

peaceable stranger" and away the dern train went, like as if smallpox 

was in town, jirkin, me down with a whack, like I'd been thrown from the 
moon; and then their darned mouths flapped open, and the fellers went to 
bobbin up and down agin. I put on an air of magnanimous contempt like, 
and took no more notice of 'em, and very naturally went to bobbin' up and 
down myself. 

Julia. You have had a wonderful time, haven't you Zeke? 

Zeke. Mel by mighty I guess I have, but where's flfce old boss? drunk 
as ever ? 

Julia. Why Zeke, Mr. Aubrey never gets intoxicated. 

Zeke. Well, he comes mighty near it sometimes, don't he? But look a 
here Jule, I've got somethin' fer you. 

Julia. Thank you Zeke, what is it pray ? 

Ifeke. You're the hired gal here yet, ain't ye ? 

Julia. Of course I am, but what'a that to do with my present? ' 



6 THREE GLASSES A BAY. 

Zeke. "Well I've got that satchel full of the mightyest dirty clothes, ever 
a man got out of, and I'm goin' to lei you wash 'em. 

Julia. I shan't do it, so there ! I'd be ashamed if I's you 1 

Zeke. Well you ain't me, and if you don't quit gettin' so darned uppish, 
you shan't never have my name. 

Julia. Oh, you hateful 1 1 won't stay here. I hate your presence. 

(Exit l. 

Zeke. U-m-m-m she's mad, by hooky ! Says she hates my presents; 
Well, I didn't spose them dirty clothe3 would please her much. Well I 
guess I'll go down and change my shirt, and get on my tother clothes, fer 
1 spose I'll have to take a regular blowin' up, when the old man gits back, 
and if I do, I want my best suit on. (Exitl,., whistling, with carpet bag. 

Enter dfrs. Aubrey and Clara, c. 

Mrs. A. Clara my child, your father has not yet returned, and should 
that man, Montford, have any evil design against him, I fear that he would 
find him an easy person to lead astray, for he knows his weakness. 

Clara. Oh, mother ! is there not some way in which we can induce poor 
p&pa to abandon his dangerous habit? Now is the time 'ere it becomes too 
firmly fixed upon him. 

Mrs. A. Alas! my child, I fear it is impossible, and though I shudder 
to say it; I have reason to believe, that not only has he become too fond of 
the wine cup, but that he has at time3 been induced, by that unprincipled 
man, Montford, to stake heavy sums at the gaming table. 

Clara. Can it be possible ? Oh ! my poor father ! Surely if this evil can 
not be remedied, misery and only misery is ours, 

( Covers her face xoith her hands, and weeps. 

Mrs. A. Clara dear, those words bring sad remembrances to my mind 
—my own miserable childhood — my poor broken-hearted mother; and more 
to be pitied than all, my wretched, misguided father. And yet my moth- 
er has often told me, of the first happy years of her married life — of a kind 
husband and a pleasant home. Intemperence, changed her happiness to 
misery, and harsh and cruel treatment from him she loved, brought her to 
an early grave, and left me the lonely being that I was, until I knew your 
dear father. No wonder that I dread the sound of even three glasses a day. 

Clara. Oh, mother! I will go to him, plead with him. Let us sacrifice 
ali if need be, rather than be brought to scenes like those. 

Mrs. A. Yet, my child, your father has withstood the arguments of his 
friends, and surely he will not yield to the pleadings of his wife and child. 
"That others have fallen," he says, "proves not that I will do the same. 
But as a man, I will stand forth and prove to all, that the moderate drinker 
and the miserable drunkard are not to be classed together; that one may 
stand on the brink of a precipice, without danger of plunging m the abyss 
below." And thus in his own vain strength he stands. 

Clara. Human strength ! Alas ! it is but weakness. The power to re- 
sist evil — nay the very consciousness that evil exists, and the desire to shun 
it, belong not to man. In God alone must we put our trust. 

Enter Ralph r. (Clara l., Mrs. Aubrey c 

Ralph. Ruined ! Ruined ! Fortune gone, happiness lost, and this quiet 
home must now be broken. Oh ! why was I led to this ? Why did I listen 
to the flattering words of Harry Montford ? Yet 'tis too late; I am lost, lost. 
Lost to the world, lost to my family and lost to myself. (Sinks in chair k 

Mrs. A. Ralph dear, dear Ralph, what can have happened? 

Clara. Father ! father ! What's the matter father ? 

Ralph. Oh ! my wife, my child; this is hard to bear, not for myself alone, 
but for you. Wife, we are penniless. Our wealth is gone, and this old 
home must be given up, unless unless 

Clara. Do tell father, what is it ? I will do almost anything, in my pow- 
er, to save you from ruin, and keep this home — our dear old home. 

Mrs. A. Yes, dear husband, let us know the worst. We will stand by 



THREE GLASSES A DAY. T 

you, in this hour of trouble. Think not that your wife and daughter will 
desert you now. 

Ralph. Clara, I have promised your hand to Harrie Montford. You 
must marry him or we are ruined, and surely you will not break your fath- 
er's promise? Many 's the lady, who would gladly smile on, and win the 
love of Harrie Montford. A man of his wealth and position is not to be 
found every day. 

Mrs. A. Oh ! my husband, anything but that. Do not force her into a 
union with that man. 

Clara. Yes, father, anything but that. Do not urge me into a union 
with one whom my soul detests. Is there no other way to cancel this debt, 
save by the sacrifice of the happiness of your own child ? My father, he is 
no true man, to claim this thing. 

Ralph. My word is given and it must be kep't. It is of no use; none 
shall say that Ralph Aubrey ever broke his word of honor. 

Clara. But father, does rank and wealth outweigh an honorable name ? 
Does gold and position in the world, cover every sin of a bad man ? No it 
does not. It's glare and glitter may dazzle many eyes, and blind them to 
the corruption within; but others there are, who will look beneath the out- 
side surface, and will shrink away, in fear at the inner revelations. Harrie 
Montford is a bad man. His life has been spent in dissipation, and this 
debt, which you call an honorable one — this was'contracted through his in- 
fluence. It was by his means, tnat my father so far forgot himself, as to 
play and stake his all, and now he would cancel it by the gift of his daugh- 
ter. Oh ! my father 1 Let us give up all, if need be, but bid me not wed 
Harrie Montford. 

Mrs. A. My daughter wed that man ? Oh, this is hard to bear ! 

( Exit l., weeping. 

Ralph. It can not be, it is too late. My child, would you have your fa- 
ther known as a gamester, to the world? Stripped of his estates, and cast 
penniless into the streets? Woukl you have his name made a by word of 
in this very city ? Oh, my God 1 was I mad, that I should have done this 
thing? Why was I not stricken down, ere I was led into this snare. Yes, 
Clara darling, you can be saved in one way, and that is a prison. You shall 
not be made a sacrifice for the sins of your father. The punishment of my 
sins shall come on me, and me alone. 

Clara. Father, dear father, I will see this man and plead with him ; he 
will have pity on us, and not claim that which will cause us so much mis- 
ery, {exit, l. 

Ralph. Now for just one drop of rum to quench this burning heat within 
me, and pacify that damnable demon which is fast gnawing at my vitals. 
Just one glass. (exit, e. 

Enter Montford, c. 

Mont. Yes, yes; Ralph Aubrey is in my power now, and Clara — the 
beautiful, peerless, Clara Aubrey — must be mine, (produces paper) This 
paper is all that is needed to complete my work. With this in my posses- 
sion she is secure, for she cannot see her father (puts away paper) suffer 
the penalty of his crime. 

Enter Zeke, l. dressed up. Montford sits with back to l. so as not to see him. 

Zeke. Goldarnit; how are you? (slaps Montford on shoulder. 

Mont. Sir ; havn't you any more manners than that? 

Zeke. Thunderation I yes ; but I ain't a-goin' to waste 'em on you. 

Mont. What's your name, and what business have you here ? 

Zeke. I guess you don't know that I'm Mr. Aubrey's footman, but if you 
ain't a little more civil you'll find out. (raises foot) And as for my namo, 
you can call it what you're a mind too. 

Mont. Perhaps, sir, you do not know to whom you are addressing your 
conversation— I am Mr. Montford, formerly of Europe. 

Zeke, Look-a-here, old boy ; you make me think of one of these old- 



8 THREE GLASSES A DAY. 

fashioned dash chums — just about as much slop to you. But I swow 
you've got some darned guod clothes on, hain't ye? 

Mont. Wiil you have the goodness to leave this room ? 

Zeke. N-o — s-i-r — e-e — e ! I won't ! 

Mont. Young man, 1 wish you'd have the goodness to tell me who you 
are. 

Zeke. Well, if yon're so darned particular, I'm Zeke Wintergreen, the 
fust. Your Richard 3, ain't ye? 

Mont. What do you know of Rcihard the third ? 

Zeke. Gol darn it, I guess I know something of him. He's the fellow 
that was in sich an almighty hurry to git a hoss. That makes me think of 
the old sorrel mare dad used to have. By Jerusalem ! Richard, you'd 
ought to * (Montford advances to Zeke, who exits, l 

Mont. To be bothered with such a nuisance is enough to 

Enter Clara, l. 

This is an unexpected pleasure, Miss Aubrey. Allow me to conduct you 
to a seat. 

Clara. No, no. I am here as a suppliant — as a child begging for the 
happiness of a dearly beloved parent. You hold in your possession, pa- 
pers, secrets, which, proven against my father, would place him in a fel- 
on's cell. No stain has yet been thrown on the name of Aubrey, and it 
would break the heart of my father and ruin the happiness ot his daugh- 
ter forever if these things were known. If in an evil hour the tempter 
came and my father proved weak and yielding, he has bitterly repented 
since. I do not crave the wealth that has been ours — no, no, ; take it all. 
It is yours by the law of honor, if not by the law of the land; take it, but 
ask for nothing more. Do not claim the hand without the heart of a weak 
girl ! 

Mont. It cannot be. I cannot give up the hope of the past year thus eas- 
ily ; it is asking too much. 'Tis not the estates of your father I seek, those 
I care not for ; I have already enough of wealth to satisfy my utmost de- 
sires, but the hand of peerless* Clara Aubrey I do crave— for that alone I 
beg. (kneels at her feet. 

Clara. Mr. Montford, I pray you rise; (rises) Would you have the 
hand alone ? Would this hand (holds out hand) and a heart filled with 
loathing give you ought of pleasure ? Would the knowledge of a broken, 
bleeding heart ever by your side— a life made desolate by you — give you 
happiness? If you have a heart, release me from this promise which my 
father has made you. By all that you hold sacred in this world, 1 entreat 
you. 

Mont. By my faith! Harry Montford were a villain indeed, did he 
claim aught unwittingly of one so Leautiful and charming as yourself. 
Though my heart bids me claim your hand, yet I would not wish an un- 
willing bride. Your father bade me think that his fair daughter would not 
look unfavorably on this union, and so I pictured to myself happiness and 
a new life in the love of the beautiful Clara; but fate decrees otherwise 
and I must submit. 

Clara. This is generous, manly. (sits,L.) I looked not for such noble 
conduct in you, Harrie Montford. May the blessings of a happy father 
and daughter ever fall on you ; and though you have not the love, yet you 
have the respect and friendship of Clara Aubrey. (/ zlds out her hand. 

Mont, (taking her hand) Clara, you have long had my love. To you it 
was given a year ago when first we met, and then I vowed to win you, 
neither thinking or caring whether your love went with the hand. That 
your pure heart shrank from mine is no wonder, for my life has been that 
from which all as pure as you would shrink away in fear. Yet it was not 
always thus. There was a time when none could throw reproach on the 
name of Harrie Montford, but the over-indulgence of a fond mother, and 
the etern, unbending will of a step-father, brought me into difficulties at 
home, and when sent to college, I soon got into trouble and was expelled. 



THREE GLASSES A DAY, 9 

Then my father forbade rne the house, and I became a rover. With plenty 
of means to travel and do as I willed, for fifteen years I have not crossed 
the threshhold of my own home, for I swore then I'd never trouble fattier 
more. My mother I never saw again. A few years after I was informed 
of her depth by a lettei from my father, which he sent to Paris whither he 
learned I was. In that letter he said that my mother had left me her dy- 
ing blessing, and bade me turn from my sinful ways, and for a time I did 
break away from my companions and lead a different life. But old habits 
were strong upon me, and again I yielded. I partook again of the spark- 
ling w r ine, and again I frequented the gambling rooms. Clara, these were 
my worst vices, though the world says otherwise; but I can lay my hand 
upon heart, and vow that my deepest vices have been those of a gamester 
and a w r me lover. 

Clara. Harrie Mont-ford, I believe you speak the truth. 

Mont. Clara, though I have seen many beautiful ladies who have smil- 
ed, and wooed me by the glances of bright eyes, in sunny Italy, in gay 
Pari9, and in our own native land, yet never did my heart answer to love s 
call till I met you. Be not alarmed, Clara, I shall not press my suit, I am 
not worthy to mate with such angelic purity and loveliness. I will not ask 
it now. I will go forth into the wide world and strive amid its clamor, 
to win an honorable name— to wash away the stain from the escutcheon of 
a Montford, and become a man of good and true principles. 

Lifts her hand to his lips as she is about to exit, l. 

Clara. And remember, Harrie Montford, the blessing of Clara Aubrey 
shall go with you. ,-u exi \' L \ 

Mont. Yes, yes ; I have been a fool ! I have wasted my youth, my best 
life in dissipation, and now the pure and lovely shrink from me. 0, Clara 
if you could have but loved me, you might have saved me— might have re- 
de'emed me from mvself; but such happiness is denied me. 1 must alone 
battle with the world, and win an honorable n t ime ; and God helping me, I 
will ! And then, if she is free— but that dream must fade ; she loathes me, 
she shrinks with abhorrence from the very name of Montford. But I will 
d stroy all trace of the crime of Ralph Aubrey, so that what I deemed 
would grant me the hand of the fair Clara, shall at least bring me her es- 
teem and friendship, {takes out paper and burns it in light) Thus perishes 
all traces of his crime, and thus commences the first act of the new life, 
which 1 have resolved to lead. \exi«, 0. 

Enter Mr. Aubrey, b., intoxicated. 
• Ralph. Say ! hold on— hie— why don't yer— ec— stir round an' 'elp a fel- 
ler when ha's tired ? Hullo ! nobody 'ere ! 

Enter Zeke, l. 
I guess— hie— they didn't— 'spect— me. Well, it's all right ! 

Zeke. By Jerusalem ! you're drunk, ain't ye ? I swow, you look neat I 

Ralph. Don't I feel neat— hie— too ? That sling's little too much forme. 
What f s the matter 'ith 'em chairs ? What's the matter'th you, Zeke ? Why 
don't yer — hie — don't yer stand still ? 

Zeke Gol darn it, you don't know nothin', do ye ? 

Ralph. It's ail 'ight, Zeke— 'its all 'ite. When I die I'll leave you all 
my — hie — old clothes. . 

Zeke. It strikes me pooty darned solid that's all you'll have to leave. 

Ralph. What's makes me so shleepy ? I'll lay down here and— hie— 
rest awhile— 'spose it's all 'ight, ain't it ? Must be all 'ight. (sinks on 
floor, front c.) Of course it's all right. Yes-it's-all-right. {breathes hard. 

Zeke. Whew ! He's slopped over the dam pooty darn quick I 

~ ( Whistles, and exits, l. 

Enter Mrs. Aubrey and Clara, l. 
Mrs. A. (starts) Merciful heavens 1 the blow has come, what will be- 
come of us? (weeps* 
Clara. Oh ! my daar, dear father. 



10 THREE GLASSES A DAY. 

Mrs. A. Heavenly Father, help us in this our hour of trial and suffering, 
and guide us in the life of misery which lies before us. (weeps. 

TABLEAU. 

Music — 'Hornet Sweet Home/ as the curtain slowly falls. 

Mrs. Aubrey, r. JRalph on floor, front c. Clara, l. 

END OF ACT I. 



ACT II. 

Scene. — Miserably furnished room. Mrs. Aubrey seated in rocking chair, b. 
c. Table l. c. 

Mrs. A. Again the bright sun rises and sheds its warm radiant light 
over the earth, making warm happy B homes bright and joyful, but it brings 
naught but gloom and misery to our wretched lite. Little did we dream 
five years ago that our pleasant home and happy family were so soon to be 
broken and brought to scenes like this ! My poor husband, once the type 
of a proud and noble man, is slowly but surely going down to the gra*e. 
Our once ample fortune which by the bounteous hand of providence, was re- 
turned to us by the generous heart of Harri3 Montford, is gone, and what 
the future has in store for us, time alone will disclose. 

Miter Julia, r. 
\ ' Julia. Please, ma'em, shall I take Mr. Aubrey's breakfast up to his 
room? He has just got up, and looks, ! so miserable, and 1 thought some 
of those warm rolls would please his appetite. 

Mrs. A. Yes, Julia, if he is ready take them up at once. (Julia turns 
to go) One moment, please, Julia ; you have ever been a faithful help, 
and it pains me to tell you this. You must know that we are no longer 
able to pay you, and for your sake it is best you should find a new place of 
employment. 

Julia. Oh, Mrs. Aubrey ! you don't know Julia Lovegrove yet. Hav'nt 
I been with you through days of wealth and happiness, and shared your 
prosperity ? And because you are brought to penury and want, do you 
think I will desert you now ? Never ! Mrs. Aubrey. It is no more than 
right that I should share your lot with you, and come what may, I will. 

Mrs. A. Julia, you have a generous heart, and I can hardly express my 
thank3 to you for the kindness you have already shown us in the past ; yet 
it seems hardly right for you to remain here without your pay. 

Julia. What do I care for pay ? Hav'nt I had it already? But shall I 
go up to Mr. Aubrey's room? 

Mrs. A. Yes ; and I'll go with you, to® — perhap3l may be of some ser- 
vice to my poor husband. (both exit, a. 

Enter Zeke, l. 

Zeke. Isowfer a little of my ornamental penmanship, fct's kinder fun- 
ny 1 hain't. never got married 'fore now, ain't it ? I've been kinder waitin' 
on Jule fer some five or six years, but somehow I never da3t to say much on 
such a ticklish subject as matrimony. Gol darn it ! that's all the trouble 
with me — I'm so thunderin' bashful — but I swow ! I shant wait much 
longer. I guess I'll write 'er a love letter, and leave it here so she'll find 
it when she comes in. I never writ a love letter in all my born days, but I 
knowed a feller once over in Plymouth that sent one to a gal, and he got 
married in less'n three weeks'. His was in poetry, so I suppose that'swhat 
suits 'em best, (places table front c, and fumbles in drawer, getting piece of 
foolscap paper and large, yellow envelope) I guess I'll practice a little, so as 



THREE GLASSES A DAY, 11 

to get limbered up, fer Jule says its practice that makes perfect, {pulls Out 
another piece of paper and begins to flourish) All right, I'll write her some- 
thin' solid, {writes, spelling the large words very extravagantly, and then 
reads it aloud. ) 

O, Julia, my darling, I love you so well, 

For you're such an all-thunderin' fine little gal, 

With your silver locks streaming far out on the breeze, 

And your long lashes droop as you frequently sneeze, 

In all my spare moments I watch your fair motion, 

And the tears course from my eyes as salt as the ocean 

As I fear on my love, perhaps you will frown — 

And then for a wife I'll he butier-side down ; 

But Julia, don't think I your feelings would hurt, 

For I already knosy your not much of a flirt, 

And should you see fit to blight this fond hope, 

I'll drown all my sorreis in a tub of soft soap. 

So marry me soon, and live like a queen 

In the sunshine and love of Zeke Wintergreen: 

There! how's that for high? If she can resist sueh tender lines aa them, 
she must have a pretty darned hard heart. 

Enter Julia, r. 

Julia. Zeke, your master wants you. 

Zeke, (writing on letter) "Weil, you can tell him I'm here. 

Julia. But he wants you to come to him — stupid ! 

Zeke. "Well, I will ; but, Jule, just afore 1 go, here's a little testimonial 
of my affection that I want to leave in your possession, {gives letter. Aside) 
"Wonder who she called stupid ? guess she must have meant the old man. 

Exit, R. 

Julia. Now what in the world can this be? (looking at letter) "Why, 
it's for me, and it's some of Zeke's nonsense. Mercy ! what writing ! 
(spells) M-i-s J-u-1-l-y-a L-u-v-g-r-o-a-v.e, S-e-n-t-i-r W-r-i-d-g-e — 
who ever saw such impudence? I know what it's all about; I suppose he 
thinks I'm going to marry him. 

Enter Clara, R. 

Clara. "Who thinks you're going to marry him, Julip ? 

Julia. ! Miss Clara, that Zeke Wintergreen's had impudence to write 
me, what he calls, I suppose, a love letter. Oh ! the wretch ! 

Clara. Well, what are you going to do about it ? 

Julia. What am I going to do about it ? (tears up letter) I'm going to 
tear it to pieces, and learn him to attend to his own business. 

Clara. Why, Julia ; Zeke's a very nice fellow, always good natured, 
never gets out of sorts. Really, Julia, I think you can't do better. 

Julia. Pshaw! Miss Clara, why didn't you marry Harrie Montford ? 
Me marry Zeke Wintergreen ? — preposterous ! (exit r. 

Clara. Harrie Montford ! Strange that the mention of that name should 
cause a thrill to my heart, such as I have never known before ; and strange 
that it should cause it to beat so rapidly. Can it be that I have mistaken 
my heart ? That those last words, coming as they did from the lips of Har- 
rie Montford, have worked other than friendly feelings? Strange, strange 
is the heart of woman ! Yes, even now there is pity, sympathy, and even 
more in my changed feelings towards him. But what am I saying ? why 
do I mention his name ? He is lost to me ; — for five long years he has been 
absent, and — I shall never see him more, (rap, i,.) Come in. 
Enter Harrie Montford, l., disguised as old man. 

Mont, (feebly) Kind lady, will you give me a glass of water, I am very, 
very thirsty ? 

Clara. I will, with pleasure. Here is a chair that you may rest, for you 
look tired and weary. (gives chair, and exits R. Montford sits, h 

Mont, (in natural voice) Yes, 'tis the same beautiful Clara Aubrey, 
Ah ! she little thinks the poor old man begging for a cup of water is the 



12 THREE GLASSES A DAY- 

noted gambler, Harrie Montford, who left her five years ago. But I must 
be careful, lest she penetrate my disguise. I have come a long way to see 
her, and learn if the name of Harrie Montford has been blotted entirely 
from her memory. She comes. 

Enter Clara, b., with glass of water. 

Clara. Here, sir, is a glass of water; and would you not like something 
to eat ! (gives water.. 

Mont. Thanks, gentle lady, this cold water is all I wish for. (drinks) 
Will you have the goodness to tell me your name, that I may know whom 
to thank for this heartfelt kindhess ? 

Clara. Certainly ; my name is Clara Aubrey. 

Mont. Clara Aubrey ? that name sounds familiar. Did you ever know 
a person by the name of Harrie Montford ? 

Clara, (eagerly) I did ; can you tell me anything of him? 

Mont. Nothing ; only that in years gone by I used to be an acquaint- 
ance of his, and I have heard him mention the name of Clara Aubrey. 
The last account I had of him, he had sailed for South America. He was a 
low and unprincipled character, was he not ? and little respected by the 
community in which he lived ? 

Clara. There was a time when Harrie Montford's examples were not 
those we should copy; yet he was not devoid of principle — he had a noble, 
generous heart, and I believe, if he is living to-day, he is a man of good and 
true principles. 

Mont. God grant that it may be so. Kind lady, once more thanking 
you for your kindness to a poor old man, I will now take my leave, (exit, l. 

Clara. Yes, God grant that it may be so. Thank heaven that I have 
heard one friendly sentiment uttered in behalf of Harrie Montford, (exi'^R. 

Enter Ralph, c. 
Ralph, (rubbing his eyes) Come, old boy, this won't do. Wake up, let's 
have none of yonr laziness. Shake your feathers and open your shutters. 
I pity these great folks, they eat, drink and sleep all the time; your rich 
folks have always something to bother 'em, and fancy every little mouse 
that plays about the house is a thief. Now I'm never afraid of thieves, 
they can come it they like. There's uothing like being poor — it saves a 
world of trouble, (sits l. c. elbow on table) I feelkinder s*range to-day ; I 
don't think I'm drunk. I've often been drunk, but I never felt this way — 
sleepy and drowsy. (rests head on table — sleeps. 

Enter Julia, e. 
Julia. 0, poor, deluded mortal. Why w ill you drink that vile stuff and 
cause your family so much misery? Ah! he sleeps, and the sickening 
fumes of rum are borne upward with every breath. Oh, Ralph Aubrey, if 
you could be made to see your condition, could you but picture to yourself 
the sorrow you cause your wife and daughter, I'm sure, unless' you are en- 
tirely devoid of reason, that instead of draining the cup to the very dregs, 
you would hurl the poisonous thing from you as you would a serpent. 

Enter Zeke, b. 
Oh, you hateful ! what are you here for ? Don't you know that Mr. Aubrey 
cannot pay you, and that unless something happens for the better, they 
will have to go to the poorhouse ? 

Zeke. Let 'em go , ef they go to the poorhouse, I'll go long with 'em. 
Say, did you peruse that little epistle that I handed ye? 

Julia. No, I didn't ; and if you ever do such a thing, I'll put this (seizes 
broom) broom over you, so clear out. 

Zeke. . Oh, don't get so darned huffy about it. Ye needn't marry me'n 
'less ye want to, I ain't particular about it, but I thought it would be a heap 
eight better for you. Say don't you think you'd better pretty much con- 
clude to change your mind, and so hitch up with me. By Jerusalem I 
Jule- 



THTtEE GLASSES A DAY. 13 

Julia, (raises broom — exit Zeke &.) Oh, dear, was any oae ever so pes- 
tered with the presence of such a 

Enter Zeke, r. 
Zeke. There, I've been out and blowed ray nose, and now I've come in— 
Julia, (drives him out with broom) Clear out you hateful rascal ! Can't 
I have a moment's peace without being bothered with that troublesome 
yankee? When Mr. Aubrey was himself Zeke had to mind his stops, tut 
since he has lost all care and control of things, he thinks he can do just as 
he pleases. 1 do wish Mr. Aubrey would send him away, although I sup- 
pose he could not well get along without him. But I do wish°he would 
mind his own business. 

Enter Zeke, e. 

Zeke. Say ! Look-a-here ; that old gray mare has been and gone and 
got the scratches. 

Julia. Zeke Wintergreen, if you want your foolish head broken, you'd 
better come in here again. (raises broom. 

Zeke. See here, you little conglomeration of tongue and temper, you 
know I didn't mean nothin' ; I was only foolin'. But if you'll put down 
that broom, I'll make it square. 

Julia. If you won't vacate this apartment, I will. I won't be bothered 
by such a greenhorn. (Exit, a. 

Zeke. W<*11, vacate it if you want to — what do you suppose I care? 
Jurns to lialph, who is sleeping, l c.) Look 'e here, old pop, don't you 
want I should rouse ye up a leetle ? (about to collar him, when Julia calls. 

Julia, (outside, r.) Zeke! Zeke! Zeke Wintergreen ! Come here, 
quick! 

Zeke. (starting) Waal, I wonder what's the matter with that female, 
now ? ( Exit, r. 

Enter Clara, c. 

C'aro. Ah, here is my poor father ! What makes you sleep hsre, fath- 
er? Ah, that heavy breathing tells too well the cause of your slumber! 
Oh, father, father-! (sits, r Knock, l.) Come in. 

Enter Montford, l. 

Clara, (rising) Harrie Montford! 

Mont. Yes, once more returned to this well-remembered place. Am I 
quite .brgotten ? < 

Clara. No, not forgotten, and I bid you welcome to our old home, which 
thanks to you, is ours again. (hi takes her hand. 

Mont. Miss Aubrey, this fair hand I once claimed; then your heart was 
full of bitterness toward me. I was a bold, bad man, with a dark stain 
upon my name — now it stands brigbt and untarnished before the world. 
1 have striven to lead a better life, with what success you have seen. But 
in those five long years, there has come no new love dream to my heart; 
I love you still. What ar* 1 saying — your pure heart shrank from me then 
—no, no, you can but despise me. 

Cla^a. Can you forgive the harsh words I uttered five years ago ? 

Mont. Tbere is nothing to forgive. You speak kindly to me — you dc 
not withdraw your hand — Miss Aubrey — Clara, dare I hope that you will 
some day be my wife? 

Clara. My heart is yours, and I will be your wife. 

Mont, (kisses her hand) Thus has the greatest earthly happiness dawn- 
ed upon me, and I now feel fully repaid for the five long years of struggling 
since we parted. 

Clara. But Harrie, do you see my father, th^re ? There is the wreck c] 
a once proud man. Would you claim the hand of a drunkard's daughter' 

Mont. That, I heed not, care not for, so say no more. I have learned 
all concerning your father's downward course — but hereafter, let us eacb 
forgive and foiget the unhappy days that are past and gone, for it shali b« 
my earnest endeavor to make the remainder of your life pass happily. ■ 



H THREE GLASSES A DAY. 

Clara. But Karrie, must I leave my father and mother? You have 
doubtless learned that the ample fortune which was returned to us through 
your kindness, has been all exhausted, and this old home is mortgaged for 
its lull value, and unless something can be done, we must 

Mont. Dear Clara, have no fear — luckily I have wealth enough, and to 
spare. You shall keep your old home, and your parents shall be kindly 
cared for. But grant me this one favor — keep the knowledge of my return 
from your parents, until I, myself, make it known. But come, let us gc 
before your father awakes. 

Clara. Oh, Harry, if my father was a sober man, I should be perfectly 
happy. Thank heaven for your return to us. Come, this way. {Exeunt, l. 

At this moment Mrs. Aubrey and others if so desired, sing softly, the second 
verse of "Rock Me to Sleep, Mother." 

Backward, flow backward, oh, tide of years, 

I am so weary of toils and of tears — 
Toil without recompense — tear* all in vain — 

Take them, and give me my childhood again. 
I have grown weary of dust and decay, 

Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away. 
Weary of sowing for others to reap — 

Kock me to sleep mother, rock me to sleep. 

Ralph, (raising up. and looking around) Was that a dream? Am I that 
wretched being, that was pictured to me, struggling in that rushing rivei 
of liquor ? Yes it was, and vainly trying to reach the shore where my poor 
wife and daughter, with streaming eyes and uplifted hands, were beckon- 
ing me to them. Yet vain was my utmost endeavors. Struggle as I might, 
I was 6 till going down, down, soon to be burned in those liquid fires of 
hell 1 when suddenly there came a warning voice saying, "Thus far shalt 
thou go and no farther." And the sweet voice of my gentle wife sounded 
in my ears rousing my sinking soul to energy. Then those rushing waves 
were stilled, and again I struck out boldly for the shore, which, thank 
heaven, I had succeeded in reaching, and where I will hereafter stand 
and again prove to the world that 1 am more worthy of its esteem and 
friendship. And with the help of God, never shall another drop of liquor 
pollute my lips. That dream has saved mel 

Mrs. Aubrey and Clara, who have appeared during this speech, come, down, l. 

Mrs A. (falls on his neck) Oh, Ralph! Ralph! Once again the same 
fond husband as of yore. 

Clara. Father, father ! My own father once more! 

Ralph. My dear, true-hearted wife — my darling daughter ! This has 
been a long night, but with God'e help, the day will now dawn upon you. 
Mary, you have ever been a faithful wife and mother. I have caused you 
much suffering, but in the future it shall be my endeavor to be what I 
ought to be, both to you and Clara. 

Clara. Oh, father,! am so happy ! What a glorious surprise awaits you 
and mother ! (exit, l. 

Ralph. Perhaps, wife, you are not awsre that we have some trials to 
pass through. We are in debt, and unless I can make some arrangement 
with my creditors, we must part from our pleasant home. 

Mrs A. Do we owe so very much, Ralph ? 

Ralph. Amere trifle to those who possess riches, but a large sum to those 
who have nothing. About five hundred dollars, I believe. 

Mrs A. One moment, Ralph. (exit, L. 

Ralph. That's a dear wife of mine ! What a brute I have been ! 

Enter Mrs. Aubrey, l., with a s>nall ivork box. 

Mrs A. Here is a gift for you, Ralph. (placing box in his hand3. 

Ralph. And rather a heavy one— (raising the lid) — too. Why, Mary, 

where did all of this money come from ? ^ 



THREE GLASSES A DAY. f 5 

Mrs A. Have you forgotten the "Three Glasses a Day" you irdulffed me 
in, for so many years? Those five ten, and twenty- five c» n t pieces, which 
form the contents of that box, are the result of that present you made me 
five years ago. J " .-- 

Ralph. Is it possible that you have treasured it up in this manner ? 

Mrs A 1 saved it for a time of need. It is all yours, now-there are 
five hundred and sixty-five dollars. We may keep our own dear homp 

Ralph And I am a free man on-e more, thanks to you. I accept youi 
gift. Strange that both somw and gladness should be caused by "Three 
Glasses a Day." * - 

Enter Clara and Harrie Montford, l. 

Ralph. Do my eyes deceive me, or is it indeed Harrie Montford who 
now stands before me? 

i ¥° n x\ Tt!f Ht A . ubre ^ [t » . H , ar r ie Montford, but not the same as ot 
old. 1 trust that the live years which have elapsed since I saw you last 
have made in me a change for the better. I went direct from here to the 
gold mines of Peru, and engaged in speculation. With plenty of capital I 
was enabled to reap a rich harvest. I succeeded in business beyond mv 
most sanguine expectations. Gold rolled in, in abundance, but* I deter- 
mined to suspend my business for a time— leave South America, and re- 
turn to these well-remembered scenes, and see if I would be welcomed to 
your home. 

Ralph. Welcome, yes, welcome ! (to Mrs. Aubrey) Mary, have you no- 
word of greeting for our former benefactor and friend ? 

Mrs A. Yes, Mr. Montford, I welcome you to our home, which had it 
not been for you, would have been in the hands of strangers. 

Mont. Thanks, dear friends for this kind greeting. But, Mr. Aubrey 
can you welcome me as a son? Once more I come to ask the hand of vour 
daughter — her heart is already mine. 

Ralph. Take her, Harrie, take her— and make her a good husband— bet- 
ter than I have been. I have led a miserable lite, and 

Mont. Thanks, Mr. Aubrey, say no more. And Mrs. Aubrey 

Mrs A. Yes, gladly do I accept you as my son, and remember that you 
have a mother's trust and love. 

Enter Zeke and Julia, a. 

Zeek. How dye du? Why, boss, you're straight 's a string, ain't you ? 
And I'll be darned if here ain't Richard three. What in thunder 'e Join' 
tew happen? 6 

Julia. Zeke, won't you keep your noisy tongue still? If you don't, I 
won't 

Zeke. There, you liked to told on't yourself, didn't you ? 

Clara. Ah, I see how it is, Julia ; you've changed your mind in regard to 
Zeke, as I knew you would, like a sensible girl as you are. 

Zeke. Yes, she's pretty much concluded to change her mind, and so 
hitch up with me." 

Julia. No, sir, not unless you learn i little civility and good manners 

at least more than you have shown for the last few weeks. 

Zeke. Um-m-m-m ! Pootty well said fer yeou. 

Mont. Oh ! 1 see we are to have two weddings. 

Zeke. Two weddin's ! who's the tother victim ? 

Mont. Myself and Miss Clara. 

Zeke. Whoop 1 Bravo ! skip-te- deedle-i- do ! that's all I know. Give 
us ycr hand for thirty days ! (shake hands) Yeou know which side yer 
bread's buttered on, don't ye ? 

Julia. Be careful, Zeke Wintergreen ; what if I should conclude not to 
marry you after all, what would you do then ? 

Zeke. Why, I'd drown all my sorrow in a tub of soft soap, like as I writ 
ye in that letter. 

Mont. Clara, dear, did you think when you gave that poor old man a 
glass of water, that you was so soon to be his wife? 



16 THREE GLASSES A DAY. 

Clara Whv. Harrie, what do you mean ? 

Mont. I simply mean, Clara, that that old man was none other than 
mvaSf. HowsLuld I know but what I had been forgotten in the five 
K years that I have been absent? and I assumed that disguise to earn 
vour feelings towards me. But remember the old saying, "All's well that 
I^aI w 1 » ( Zeke places Julia's arm wxtnxn his own. 

Ralph Yes, dear wife, daughter and son, -All is well ;" and as I stand 
here! once rnor'e united with my happy family beneath this old roof and 
thiSc that you together have saved me from ruin and from an ignomini- 
ous death, fwoulcf return thanksgiving ior the many blessings we -have > re- 
ceived. And to those of our dear friends present, who are about to step 
forth intothe broad arena of life, and to those who stand on the brink of 
the fatal precipice : lest you you be precipitated into the gulf below, pause, 
pause, an§ beware of the tempter, a/d while there is yet time, pledge your- 
selves, with the help of God, to shake off the yoke that binds you. Be true 
to yourselves, and to the dear ones that gather *™*\j°™* ™™*; 
hearths j and bear in mind the sad remembrances of our "Broken Home. 

Mrs. Aubrey and Mr. Aubrey, 0. 
Harrie and Clara, u., with hand joined. Ztke and Julia, l. 

TABLEAU. 

Slow Music and slow Curtain. 



DRIVEN TO THE WALL, OR TRUE TO THE LAST. 

A Play in Four Acts, by A.D. AMES, author of the Poacher's 
Doom, Wrecked, The Spy of Atlanta, Etc. 
For beauty of dialogue, startling situations, depth of feeling, in 
fact all points whicn go to make up a drama, which will continue to 
grow in public favor, there is none on the American stage superior 
to this one. The plot is an exceedingly deep one, aud the interest 
begins with tne first speech, and does not for a moment cease until 
the curtain falis on the last scene of the last act. The cast is small, 
the costumes easily arranged. It can be played on any stage. It 
has parts for Leading Emotional Lady, Juvenile Ladv, Leading 
Man, Villain, Chararter Old Man, First Old Man, Comedy, etc 
Traveling companies, everywhere, should have it, and every thea- 
tre should have it. Just published at 15 cents per copy. 

r>- 

Every Dramatic Company should order copies 
of the Temperance Plays mentioned below. 

"RESCUED" 

In two a^ts, by Clayton H. Gilbert. Has five male and three fe- 
male characters. This play is esaily produced and is always very 
effective. It visibly depicts the dangerous consequences of falling 
into bad company, the follies of the intoxicating bowl, and shows 
that even the pure love of a noble girl will be sacrificed to the ac- 
cursed appetite. The rescue of the fallen man is well carried out 
by a friend in deep disguise. The solemn scenes are balanced by 
the tunny portions, and all in all, the play is a grand success. 




a 



Out in the Streets/' 



In two acts, by S. N". Cook. Wherever this drama has been pre- 
sented, it has been received with the greatest enthusiasm. Listen- 
ers have been melted to tears at the troubles of Mrs. Bradford, and 
in the next scene been convulsed with laughter at the drolleries of 
North Carolina Pete. The play has six male and four female char- 
acters. The characters are excellently drawn, and if a clay is 
needed that will exactly fill the requirements of a small company, 
order this one. 

0§^ The above plays are but 15 cents per copy. For sale, 
WHOLESALE & RETAIL by 

A. I). AMES, Publisher, 

Clyde, Ohio. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



CATALOGUE OF PLA 




iW7_401 667 7 



No. 60. — I>riven to tlic Wall, or Xriie to the Last, 

A Play, in four acts, by A. D. Ames. 10 male and 3 female char- 
acters. For beauty of dialogue, startling situations, depths of feel- 
ing, in fact all points which go lo make up a drama that will con- 
tinue to grow in public favor, there is none on the American Stage 
superior to this one. The plot is an exceedingly deep one, and the 
interest begius with the first speech, and does not for a moment 
cease uu til the curtain falls ontheJast scene of the last act. The cast 
is small and the costumes easily arranged. It can be played on any 
stage. It has parts for Leading Emotional Lady, Juvenile Lady, 
Leading Man, Villain, Character Old Man, First Old Man, Comedy, 
etc. Traveling companies, everywhere, should have it, and every 
theatre should have it. 

No. 61. — Not as Deaf as Ite Seems. 

An Ethiopean Farce in one act. 2 male characters. Scene — a 
plain room. Costumes exagerated and comic. Extremely ridicu- 
lous and fuuny. Time of performance 15 minutes. 

No. 63 — Xen rvigltts in a Bar-Room. 

A Temperance Play, in five acts, by Wm. W. Pratt, from T. S. 
Arthur's novel of the same name — 7 male, 3 female characters. 
This edition is rewritten, containing many new points, and is the 
best ever presented to the public. Nothing need be said in its 
praise, as it is too well known. It is often played, and always suc- 
cessfully. Time of performance about two hours. 

No, U9.— Three Glasses a I>ay, 

Or, The Broken Home. A grand Moral and Temperance Drama, in 
two acts, by W. Henri Wilkins, 4 male, 2 female characters. Cos- 
tumes modern. Scenes, interiors. First-class characters for Lead- 
ing Man, Villain, a genuine down-east Yankee, wiiich is also very 
funny; also Leading Lady, and a tip-top Comedy Lady, If acorn- 
uany wish something with an excellent moral, at the same time 
running over with genuine humor, buy this. Time of performance 
about one hour and thirty minutes. 

No. 64.— That Boy Sain. 

An Ethiopean Farce in one scene, by F. L. Cutler. 3 male, 1 fe- 
male character. Scene— a plain room and common furniture, Cos- 
tumes, comic, to suit the characters. Very tunny, and effectually 
gives the troubles of a "colored gal" in trying to have a beau, and 
the pranks of "that boy Sam." Time of performance twenty minutes. 

No. 65* — An Unwelcome Return. 

A Comic Interlude, in one act, by Geo. A. Munson. 3 male, 1 fe- 
male character. Scene — a dining room. Costumes, modern. Com- 
panies will find this a very amusing piece, two negroes being very 
funny — enough so to keep an audience in the best of humor. Time 
of performance, twenty minutes. 



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